


Sympathy for the Demon

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angellock, Clothed Sex, Demon!Sherlock, Demonlock, Faustian Bargain, Forbidden Romance, M/M, Romance, Seduction, Winglock, angel!John, exchangelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been very careful about hiding his true identity, but some things are impossible to conceal under the watchful eye of Sherlock Holmes. Who, as it turns out, has a few secrets of his own. What will change between them when the truth is laid bare?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text. You're the best!
> 
> This is my exchangelock gift to [official-star-lord](http://official-star-lord.tumblr.com/). He listed several things, but I decided to go with angels and demons theme. I hope you'll like it :)

The date had been picked with extreme care. Sherlock was away on a case somewhere in the middle of Irish nowhere and wouldn't be back at least until midnight. That had been confirmed the evening before while they chatted on Skype. Perfect. As much as John wanted to go on every adventure with his barmy flatmate, sometimes that simply wasn't possible. He had urgent responsibilities at the clinic that he couldn't simply abandon. And yet he was torn between the obligation to his patients and to Sherlock. He very nearly considered asking someone for a favour and getting a replacement, but, surprisingly, Sherlock had knocked that idea out of his head. The detective insisted adamantly that he could go alone and be absolutely fine. 

“ _I'm not a child, John_.” 

“ _No, you're much worse, Sherlock_.” 

Ultimately, John relented as he ran out of arguments. He wished his friend a safe journey, while a part of him celebrated the prospect of being alone at last.

The brief separation between flatmates provided a great opportunity to finally take good care of the part of John's anatomy that had been shamefully neglected during the past months. Honestly, how was he supposed to satisfy his bodily needs while a nosy, all-seeing, mad detective was roaming the flat? With his absence, seeking much needed relief was not only within his reach, but was ridiculously easy as well.

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when John stood up briskly from the bed where he had spent the whole night reading. It was nice to finish a crime story without having its ending spoiled by Sherlock for a change. The doctor still had at least an hour before he needed to start getting ready for work. It should be enough. 

John paced to the mirror, spending a while simply regarding his current features that seemed so familiar already. John was a handsome man, albeit rather short and worn-out after all the suffering life had thrown at him. Even so, his sandy hair, deep blue eyes and a winsome smile made him popular with women – a fact that the current host of his body bemoaned on a daily basis. This whole dating business was baffling and unnecessary, frankly speaking. Still, he had to keep up appearances, so he went out from time to time with one woman or another, but never found too much pleasure in their company. He would pick one of Sherlock's rants or sulks over a romantic outing anytime. 

He shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts. Better not waste time right now. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

John took off his shirt, tossing it casually on the bed. His chest was bare, adorned with tufts of blond hair scattered sparsely between his nipples. The pinkish scar on his shoulder stood out against his skin like a grim reminder of how delicate the human life was and how easily it could change forever.

When was the last time he could expose himself like this? Months, easily. Too long, anyway. He was positively aching for release. The time had come. 

John closed his eyes briefly, revelling in the fleeting sensation of sheer bliss, and arched his back in one fluid motion. The skin on his shoulder blades cracked and parted without any blood or pain. With a quiet 'whush' a pair of big, ruffled wings unfolded, taking nearly all the free space in the room. John moved them deliberately a couple of times, stretching all the sore muscles. The soft rustling sound they produced could comfort him like nothing else. 

John smiled at his reflection. It felt so good not to have to hide them anymore. Concealing them right beneath his skin with the help of spells and illusions was really painful, especially if he had to keep them tucked away for extended periods of time without proper care. Like right now, in fact, to which the sorry state of his feathers was an evident testimony. Even the mere thought of grooming his aching appendages elicited a relieved sigh from within his throat. 

John reached into a drawer and brought out a soft hand brush. He stood right in front of the mirror again, his hand moving steadily to smooth the rumpled feathers. Each stroke was allaying the pain like a balm. Soon enough a few damaged feathers were lying on the floor, scattered all around John's feet. No matter. He'd tidy up when he was done. As always, he'd put them all in a garbage bag and dispose of it somewhere in the city, as far from Sherlock's usual route as possible. Better safe than sorry, even if the detective wasn't even in London and couldn't possibly find them anyway. 

This thought hadn't even died away properly, when the sudden slam of the door leading to their flat made John freeze in terror with the brush stuck midair. 

“John!” 

There was no mistake. The voice unmistakably belonged to Sherlock. He had come home early for some reason, and judging by the eagerness in his quick steps on the stairs, he was bent on telling something to his flatmate urgently. 

John felt a surge of panic. Sherlock had never been big on privacy and personal space. It was almost certain that he'd barge into the room without a split second of hesitation, even if John explicitly forbade him from doing that. 

John had only a moment before his secret would be discovered. He had to react fast, relying on his instincts. He hid his wings at once with a wince, shuffled the feathers under the bed with his leg, and then threw the brush inside his wardrobe. There was no time to put his shirt back on. Sherlock waltzed into the room, as if he owned the place, with a beaming smile on his face and a glint of pride in his eyes that screamed about a successfully solved case. If he was surprised to see his flatmate half naked, he didn't let that show. He simply sized him up and down with such intensity that the tips of John's ears turned red. 

“Can't you knock?” John grumbled, placing his hands on his hips in a threatening pose, though the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips made the chastisement less severe. “Besides, you were supposed to come back around midnight and it's barely five am. Did you forget how to read a clock?”

Sherlock, as always, simply waved off all criticism, deeming it a waste of time. Instead, he proceeded to recount the finished case, showing off his mental prowess. Car chases, a drug syndicate, a house blown to smithereens... everything straight from a cheap action movie was there. John ended up so enraptured with the tale that it was nearly half past six when he regained his senses. 

“Damn, I'll be late!” he cried out with annoyance, glaring at Sherlock half-heartedly for distracting him. All he could do right now was to put a shirt on rapidly, grab his bag and his jacket on the way, and dash to the clinic, hoping that Sarah was in a forgiving mood today. 

Sherlock lingered in John's room, a complacent smirk plastered to his face. If he was that kind of man, he'd probably whoop cheerfully and pat himself on the back. Everything had gone according to plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text. You're the best!

From the moment John entered home, Sarah's harsh reprimands still ringing in his ears, he realised that something was wrong. Not that he could explicitly see or hear anything amiss, nothing like that. No blaring alarms, no infernal stenches, no exploding bombs. The odd sensation was far more subtle; a nagging tingling of his sixth sense, a slight shift in the aura of 221B Baker Street, the eerie meaningful silence, all of this infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things but impossible to ignore. If someone asked him to put the feeling into words, he wouldn't be able to describe it in any better way than an itch at the core of his being. Perhaps that was precisely the sensation people usually called “someone walking over one's grave”. Curious thing.

Full of foreboding, but trying to keep calm, John hung his jacket on the hook and slowly climbed up the stairs into the living room. As expected, since Sherlock had just finished a case, the man was right there, sprawled lazily in his armchair, his legs crossed casually at his ankles, his fingertips joined under his chin in his usual thinking position. Despite his relaxed stance, he was far from being listless. His bright eyes peered intently at his flatmate, glistening in a strange, feverish way. John couldn’t remember ever seeing him like that, even during an especially harrowing murder investigation. 

“You okay?” John asked, furrowing his eyebrows, a hint of habitual worry in his voice. To this came an enigmatic answer.

“For now. It depends.” Sherlock shifted slightly, lifting his right hip to get better access to the pocket in his black trousers that covered his legs so perfectly. Just one of the many factors that made him so devilishly handsome. He slid his hand inside, coiling his fingers around something concealed from John's view. His deceptively casual tone sent chills down John's spine. “Look what I found under your bed.”

When Sherlock opened his hand, there were three snow white feathers lying flat on his palm. 

John's face resembled a perfect mask of annoyance, not betraying the real dread he felt. A huge block of ice seemed to have formed in his stomach, the freezing cold spreading all over his body and nearly paralysing him, but he managed to keep his tone incensed. 

“What the hell were you doing under my bed?”

The detective acted as if he hadn't heard him. He started speaking in a pensive, deliberate manner, his impossibly long and deft fingers stroking the vanes of the feathers in a nearly mesmerising manner.

“Interesting thing, these feathers. I've done my research, you know. No species of birds living in London can boast this kind of plumage. Bah, no species in England, in Europe, and in the whole world has feathers like these. No species known to mankind, at least. If such an animal existed, it would be approximately human size, considering the proportions. How bizarre! And to think that I found a couple of such odd feathers just under your bed. What an interesting discovery. How did they end up there, I wonder?”

John stared at him for a while unblinkingly and then shrugged with feigned indifference. He'd always been a terrible liar and he was acutely aware of that fact. 

“The wind blew them there from some storehouse filled with movie props? One of Baskerville's creatures is on the loose? How should I know? You're the one dabbling in strange experiments and cases. Solve it, if you wish.”

“Oh, I did,” Sherlock said, the smug grin on his face making John uneasy. He continued, his voice suave and velvety, but with an almost predatory edge to it. If a cat toying with a mouse could speak, he'd sound just like that. “I’ve had my suspicions for quite some time, John. It's hard to be certain with your kind. You're masters of disguise, being so fantastic at posing as humans if you want to. Sleeping, eating, breathing – a flawless performance! It was the little things that got me wondering: your remarkable, only a tad over-the-top speed when someone was in danger; the fact that the healing rate of your patients at the clinic, especially those seriously ill, is much higher than anywhere else in the city; the sudden decrease of homeless pets in the area of Baker Street who miraculously found a new home. Definitely the work of someone with extraordinary compassion rarely found among common Londoners. Too bad that big heart equals sloppy camouflage,” he commented with a chuckle. “The feathers are the final proof I needed. I knew that if my suspicions were correct, you'd have to groom your wings properly sooner or later. And what better time to do that than while your flatmate is away? All I had to do was to make sure that you wouldn't be able to dispose of the feathers like you usually do. I exploited your love for a good narrative, thus making you late for work, and then searched your room while you were gone. So now I'm sure who you really are, John.”

John looked at him with an impenetrable expression on his face, though his hands were clenched into fists, his fingernails dug hard into his flesh. “Then who am I?” he asked evenly.

Sherlock gave him a 'don't-insult-my-intelligence' look. “An angel. Obviously.”

John sighed. There was no sense in upholding the masquerade anymore. Sherlock had figured out the truth. The doctor used to be afraid that this day would come, though surprisingly he wasn’t really experiencing any anger or disappointment now that it had happened. All he felt was anticipation. They had a problem and needed to deal with it. So much for pretend normalcy. 

“Would you mind if I stretch them a bit? They hurt when I keep them hidden for too long.” 

“Not at all. Be my guest.” 

For the second time that day John removed his shirt and released his impressive wings with a roll of his shoulders. Though he didn't resemble an angel from religious paintings at all, he was the very picture of solemnity and power. No one could mess with him and live to tell about it. 

Sherlock looked at him keenly, his eyes tracing the outlines of his flatmate's appendages with the attentiveness of a connoisseur. John felt that burning gaze slide not only along the feathers and sinews, but also across his chest. His cheeks assumed a delicate shade of pink. 

“They're beautiful,” Sherlock stated after a moment of silent admiration.

“Thank you.”

“I've always been jealous, you know? My true form is nowhere near as impressive.” Sherlock slowly rose from the armchair and walked casually to John with feline grace. He stopped only about a metre from him, a mocking smile painted across his features. He blinked once and his brilliant blue irises were replaced by darkness. His whole eyes turned black, empty and devoid of any emotions. Demon's eyes. 

John was completely unfazed by this display. He didn't flinch or seem disgusted by the proximity of an abomination from hell. Sherlock found that reaction to his liking. He blinked again and his eyes returned to their usual appearance.

“Well, since your identity has been exposed, there's one question on my mind that's been bothering me. Namely, why am I still alive?” he asked curiously, but seeing that John wasn't too keen on answering, he continued, as he circled around his flatmate, who in turn never took his eyes off the detective's face. “We've been living together for almost two years. I am convinced that you knew about my demonic nature all along. You were most likely sent here to get rid of me. A demon on the loose? An escaped hell-dweller among humans? That couldn't do! I'm sure many goody-goodies upstairs were pretty upset,” he said, pointing flippantly heavenwards. Finally, he stopped in his place only a few inches from John, and when he spoke again, he demanded an answer. “You could have smitten me ages ago. There were plenty of occasions, even on the first day we met. So please, enlighten me – why am I still here, _angel_?”

The corner of John's lips curled upwards in barely contained amusement. Amusement surely shouldn't have been a reaction to all this, but here he was. 

“Alright, _demon_. Please, enlighten me. If you suspected me of being a mortal threat to you then why didn't you try to kill me? Or if you were afraid of failure and retribution or didn't have the means to do it, why didn't you run away, hm?”

Sherlock squinted his eyes menacingly, but the grimace didn't last long. His features softened and the expression on his face mirrored John's mirth.

“Touché,” he commented, always pleased and proud when John was being clever. A rarity to see an angel capable of using his brain. “So what now? Should we fight to the death like the rest of the savages from our respective races? Or should we exchange tales in a more pacifistic way? How about a verbal version of 'show me yours and I'll show you mine'?” 

John snorted with laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. The last thing they should be doing right now is to crack silly jokes. Then again, with Sherlock nothing was ever predictable and normal. “Very well.” He very much preferred a conversation to duelling.

“Then begin, John... or whoever you are.”

The angel shrugged. A very impressive gesture with his wings out. “There's not much to tell, really. Yes, I've been sent to London to locate a high-ranking demon lurking somewhere in the shadows. I was certain it would take weeks to even find a lead in this bustling hive of souls. Imagine my surprise when on the first day I stumbled upon John's friend, who introduced me to you. Must have been fate or a terrible irony,” he stated with a lopsided smile. “Up to this point I'm not sure which. I just know that you've made quite an impression on me. Enough to make me curious and halt my blade.”

Sherlock acknowledged that honest remark with a nod. “If you were sent here to take care of me, you must be pretty high-ranking yourself. What's your true name then?” Sherlock inquired curiously, tilting his head. “Are you famous among the heavenly host? Should I ask for an autograph?”

In response, John offered a smirk. Well, now that would be interesting. 

“My name is Terel. I’m not sure you've heard about me. I was worshipped in ancient times as a messenger of wisdom. I've always been quite fond of that title.” As much as he cherished the ghostly pallor creeping on Sherlock's face, he couldn't keep him in such an unnerved state for too long. They had things to discuss. “You can still call me John, though. I've grown accustomed to that name, and the man whose body and name I bear deserves recognition. He's an exceptional person. Strong moral principles, for starters. He was a doctor, but also a soldier, who never hesitated to put his life on the line to protect people. Wounded in Afghanistan, he was sent back to London. Couldn't really find his place among civilians. When I found him, he was holding a gun against his temple. Thankfully, he hadn't pulled the trigger, but instead, after some persuasion, agreed to be my vessel. We've been getting along nicely. And what about you?” 

“About me?” His nonchalance was evident, though it felt more like a pose than a genuine attitude. He apparently needed a bit more time to come to terms with the idea of having a phony god as his flatmate. “Well, obviously I didn't need to ask anyone for permission. But don't give me that look, John. Holier-than-thou doesn't suit you. When I met Sherlock a couple of years back he was in a hospital. Nothing more than a vegetable after a drug overdose. Hopeless case without a shred of chance to get better, save for a demonic intervention. I chose him, thinking that it would be nice to live as a handsome, posh young man. Humans care about appearances so much, don't they? Anyway, I underestimated our comatose-man. In this dying body was a remarkable mind, which wasn't too happy that he was being possessed. Thankfully, Sherlock was able to see reason and understood that our partnership was beneficial to both sides. After all, we wanted the same thing.”

“Yeah, and what was that?” John couldn't help but ask. 

“Can't you guess for yourself?” Sherlock challenged him with a cheeky smile.

John wanted to say that how the heaven was he supposed to know that, but with certain surprise he realised that, in fact, he knew the answer. It was obvious if Sherlock and... the other Sherlock had so much in common. 

“You both didn't want to be bored,” he replied with astounding clarity. 

Sherlock didn't even have to bother with confirmation. The look on his face was telling enough. How was it possible for a demon to have such an affectionate smile? But then this particular demon was exceptional in so many ways.

“Who were you? Or are, I guess. Before you claimed Sherlock.”

Somehow that made the demon chuckle.

“Well, I could tell you to take a guess again. If you have even minute knowledge about literature, you should be able to figure out who I am without much difficulty. So many people wrote about my life, though with an alarming inaccuracy. Goethe especially was a sucker for a happy ending... I liked Marlowe's version the best, probably. Quite entertaining, albeit rather crude.” 

It took the combined efforts of the thousands of years of experience of the angel and high school knowledge of John’s to piece the clues together and arrive at the conclusion. He sucked in a lungful of air as a sign of surprise, having adopted that human custom.

“You're...?” 

“Yes, I'm Doctor Johann Georg Faust. In the flesh, so to speak. At your service.” He bowed with a flourish before his flatmate. “A mouthful, I know. I'm fine with Sherlock, in case you were wondering.”

John was speechless. He reached into the recesses of his mind, thinking about the legend of Faust. How he made a deal with the devil to gain unlimited knowledge, magical powers and a beautiful woman. Though, knowing Sherlock, John didn't really believe in the last part of the story. His attraction towards women was non-existent. At least that was something they had in common. 

“Was it worth it? Selling your soul?” the angel wanted to know. There was no judgement in his voice, he simply felt concerned.

Sherlock's face was stony, but various emotions flickered across his eyes. The knowledge, everything he'd seen, everything he was able to experience... But then countless years in hell, being tortured and then tormenting other souls himself. Everything came with a price. The good couldn't always outbalance the bad and vice versa. Despite that, the answer could be only one.

“Yes, of course. I met you, didn't I?”

John gave him a small smile that was as much flattered as it was shy. The atmosphere in the room changed a little and the air became hot and stuffy. They regarded each other with newly found openness, and something else they didn't dare to name yet. Sherlock didn't let the silence reign for long, though. He cleared his throat and said, “Our conversation has sidetracked a bit. You still haven't answered my question. Why didn't you kill me?” 

John held his gaze, turning more serious as the topic demanded. 

“I was to eliminate a demon, who was a threat to humanity. But I noticed that you weren't a threat at all. You caught me by surprise, deducing John's life at a mere glance. I was intrigued and decided to keep an eye on you before I made a decision about your life or death. You weren't creating chaos and harvesting souls. If anything, you were helping people, even if not always for the right reasons. I observed you for a long time, weighing your sin. You weren't as bad and unfeeling as you pretended to be. I couldn't kill you just for being a demon. You had free will and used it for good. And besides...” He clammed up, unsure whether or not he should continue. 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked with uncharacteristic gentleness. The angel didn't want to reply, conflicted. When it became clear that he wouldn't say anything, Sherlock continued on his own. “I can't speak for you, but I can speak for myself. There was a very simple reason why I didn't want to attack you or run away from you. You're intriguing, John. I was... fascinated from the very beginning. You were a remarkable human being, but when I understood that you might not be a human at all... Well, that certainly piqued my interest. An angel who wasn't a mindless drone, but made his own choices? An angel who understood that the world isn't black and white and accepted the grayness? How could I abandon or destroy that while you made no effort to destroy me? But that's not all. You became my friend, against all odds. How could I give up on that?”

John smiled, shaking his head a bit. It was all really bizarre. They were probably the two most unlikely friends ever. Though honestly he wasn't sure if the term 'friends' really described fully what was going on between them. The fact still remained that they had a unique partnership and connection, something John hadn't experienced with anyone else, angel or human. “And to think that of all people I decided to trust a demon...”

“Do you regret it?” asked Sherlock with some tension in his voice. 

John felt the need to allay his uneasiness. Maybe it was his angelic instincts, and maybe something completely different. Whatever the reason, he reached out with his hand and put it on the demon's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Not even a little bit.”

The smile that decorated Sherlock's lips was brief, but genuine. He covered John's hand with his own. The angel didn't pull back, which was a good sign.

“Everyone in heaven must be royally pissed off at you.” 

“You have no idea.”

They both erupted with a bout of silly laughter, not breaking the physical connection they shared. Sherlock had never been happier than in those moments when he could laugh alongside John. However, there was still an elephant in the room that had to be dealt with it. 

“So what now?” asked Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text. You're the best!
> 
> So that's the last chapter. Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it.

_So what now_? The question rang deafeningly in John's ears. What now indeed? What could he even reply to that?

“Now?” he asked innocently, wanting to stall and get a little more time to absorb everything that had happened. Removing the shackles of pretence had been a huge deal, after all. They were no longer two humans wrapped up in a cosy blanket of reality. They were a demon and an angel, far beyond the human law and rules of society. To fully accept that fact and its repercussions wasn't an easy thing. 

Sherlock, in truly demonic fashion, wasn't overly understanding. He pressed the subject despite his friend's reluctance. “Do we continue our relation as we did before?”

“Well, if you haven't changed your mind about killing me in the past couple of minutes, I don't see why not,” John replied lightly, seeking comfort in humour to diffuse the tension bubbling in the air. His plan succeeded, at least in regards to making Sherlock laugh.

“No. If I change my mind I will inform you in advance about the scheduled date of your demise. That's common courtesy, really. We should fight against the stereotype of demons being treacherous.” There was something more in his eyes than simple mirth. He hesitated for a moment, engaged in some kind of inner struggle, before he leaned closer to John's neck. His hot breath fanned gently over the angel's skin as he spoke. “Status quo, however, is not the only available option...” 

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows, tilting his head minutely towards his hellish flatmate. 

“Yes. We can have more...”

The angel felt his heart skip a beat. Sherlock's silky baritone alone had always done things to him, but combined with the tempting suggestion that left those kissable lips, the mixture was irresistible. Even though John had already made his decision, he didn't show his excitement, concealing it with another smirk. 

“Are you trying to seduce me, demon?”

“If I'm succeeding, then yes.” The cheekiness and shameless flirtation in his voice made John roll his eyes and chuckle. Encouraged, Sherlock pushed through. “Or are you too holy for a forbidden romance?”

When Sherlock put his hand on John's chest, the angel swatted it away playfully. “If you think I'm that easy, boy do I have news for you. I demand proper courting, you filthy debaucher. For starters, you can groom my wings, since I couldn't do it properly earlier thanks to a certain someone. The brush is in my room.”

“Not anymore,” Sherlock replied with a smile that could put a shark to shame. He moved his hand behind his back, and when he showed it again, his fingers were clenched around the very same brush, ready to be used. John eyed him incredulously, but then burst out laughing again. He had no idea how Sherlock managed to do it. Perhaps he used some of his demonic powers, or maybe he had prepared the trick in advance. Never mind. John was impressed. “Turn around,” Sherlock said calmly, not expecting any resistance. 

He wasn't wrong in his assumption. John had no reason not to obey. He showed his back to Sherlock without a trace of fear. The thought that the other man might hurt him or take advantage of his inattention didn't even appear in his mind. The fact that Sherlock knew about his flatmate's identity, hadn't changed John's attitude. He would do everything for Sherlock and the feeling was mutual. Above all, they trusted each other implicitly. 

He gasped when the brush touched his wings and then murmured in pleasure. The long, well measured strokes to his sensitive feathers, accompanied by Sherlock's fingers delicately tracing the rachides with true veneration made the angel melt into that touch. With the added sensation of the detective's lips brushing along the nape of John's neck, his legs turned to jelly. 

“You're lucky I'm not allergic to feathers,” Sherlock whispered, the tip of his tongue teasing the shell of John's ear. 

He giggled in response, as it was almost impossible to concentrate enough to form a coherent reply. “Or sanctity.” 

“Oh, I don't think that there's a lot of saintly things on your mind right now...” Sherlock's voice was sweet like honey, but dangerous like a wasp. The brush slipped out of his fingers and fell to the carpet. Even if John thought about protesting, the hand moving to cup his crotch had cut all his objections short. “Mhm, just like I thought. Not so holy after all...” He rubbed John's whole length through the fabric of his trousers, enjoying the angelic desperate whimper and the bucking of his hips. “You're so pretty when you're falling apart. Tell me what you need, John, and I'll make sure that you won't be left wanting.”

But John was past speaking. The dormant desire Sherlock had awoken was too strong. He tucked the wings closer to his body and turned around to face the demon, giving him a smouldering glare. That surprised Sherlock, but nonetheless he licked his lips suggestively in an inviting manner. John took the cue. Standing on his tiptoes and forcefully grabbing the sides of Sherlock's face, he pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. The kiss was sloppy, messy, all tongues and clashing teeth, but perfect, oh so perfect. Emotions ran high, lust blinding them to anything that wasn't their entwined bodies joined together in an erratic flurry of caresses.

Not breaking the kiss, John pushed his lover, steering them to the couch. When Sherlock's knees touched the cushions, he flopped down with a silent gasp, John's body landing on top of him right away. There was nothing but passion filling the minutes. The mingling of breaths, the fire of touches, the ceaseless rutting until the blissful floods of release washed over them, bringing calm and affection. They lay motionless and spent, a tangled mess of heavy limbs. 

“We probably just violated at least a dozen heavenly taboos,” Sherlock managed to say once he got his breath back, feeling the weight of John's head on his chest. His fingers ran tenderly through his lover's hair, dampened with sweat, only to rest on his folded wings. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you worried?”

“Not particularly.” They exchanged roguish smiles. Now _that_ was the angel Sherlock loved and treasured. “Though it would be wise to fall off the radar for a while,” John added.

“Yes. How about a change of climate, Terel?”

“You lead the way, Johann.” John leaned to kiss him, but the demon put his finger over his lover's lips to stop him.

“Call me Faust. Much cooler.”

They laughed again and shared a kiss properly. 

“You know, I think that John is surprisingly okay with what we have just done...” the angel confessed quietly.

“I think that Sherlock is even more than okay.” Once more they shared knowing smirks. 

It was time to leave. John hid his wings. Both bodies lit up with white and black energy respectively and two clouds of dark and bright smoke escaped through the window into the dark, twirling around one another, ready to share an eternity together. 

* * * 

John blinked down at the young, handsome man lying beneath him. They stared at each other in confusion, slowly absorbing the fact that their hosts were gone. 

“Well, this is awkward...” he muttered, unpleasantly aware of the sticky mess inside his pants. 

His voice must have broken a spell. Sherlock burst out laughing hysterically and John joined him very soon. No one would ever believe them if they told how they met.


End file.
